


The Scars of Age

by ignition



Category: Naruto
Genre: Drabble, Friendship, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 21:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignition/pseuds/ignition
Summary: Shikamaru isn't the kind of person who should save the world; world saving should be left to the charismatic heroes of the world. Shouldn't it?





	The Scars of Age

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know what to make of this, it was a sudden idea needing attention, and this is the result. Short, basically pointless, but something.
> 
> I like somethings.

_Troublesome_ is his first thought, though a distinct shiver of fear is a close second. Shikamaru is far from stupid, too far to not understand the implications of what just happened. And to what hasn’t happened.

He’s in his bed, old worn pyjamas soft against his skin and the twitter of birds out the window enough to keep him from closing his eyes in a desperate try to pretend reality isn’t underway. It wasn’t a dream, can’t have been, not with all of the information and knowledge in his head. And it’s the poster that tells him he’s back. It was gifted to him from his father, the motif black against a yellow background, a chart of hand signs. Signs he’s got memorised since the day it was given to him.

Time travel. Huh. Who would have thought that that’d be a thing that happened. Who would have thought that Shikamaru would be the one to experience it. Had destiny been a thing it would have happened to someone more charismatic, someone more engaged with the world and its happenings. Shikamaru is more of an observer, not the kind of person to take action. Typical. Another word that Shikamaru greatly approves of.

Resigned he does a body check, tries to create a timeline in his head to allow his scars to tell him his position in time. He’s missing a kunai wound at his hipline. He’s younger than fifteen. Three shuriken lines are gone from his right thigh. Younger than thirteen. The skin of his left hand is completely smooth, no trace of a burn scar. Definitely not twelve. Shit. There is, however, a barely noticeable line through his lower lip from where it burst at eleven.

He’s eleven. A few months into his eleventh year even. But eleven.

“Troublesome,” he says, sighs, tonguing the evidence of his bodily age.

He spends another ten minutes in bed, not moving. Not ready to leave the safe cocoon of his comforter.

His mother in the kitchen makes him pause. She greets him with a smile; gestures with her hand that he should sit. Does it count as deja-vu if he’s literally reliving his life? She serves him a bowl of rice and some fried up vegetables, an egg follows, being placed on the mound of rice. He thanks her, picking up his chopsticks. His younger self would probably complain about the egg, even if it’s fried and not boiled. As he is, he can’t find it in him.

It’s weird. Too weird almost, but what can he do about that really, other than bear it. It’s good that his father isn’t there, because as much as his mother can also read his pokerface, she’s not as skilled at analysing it for meaning.

His mother’s “Say hello to Iruka-sensei from me,” when he rises from the table is what finally gets to him. Has him frozen in his spot and realise what his situation really means.

Running at this age, it wasn’t really a thing Shikamaru did. Which is probably why his mother gasps when he rushes out from the kitchen. He’s already dressed, has everything he might need in his pockets, so leaving the house is no question. He only stops when he’s three streets away from home, taking everything in.

Sees a village safe from harm, a Konoha not bathed in blood. Runs again, to the school this time, and stops at the fence. Children are playing, as much as children attending the Academy play, and there are chills down his back. There is laughter and Shikamaru feels his heart beat hard in his chest.

He’s still not the kind of person who’s meant to save the world, but maybe he needs to become that person. Maybe Shikamaru can be that person, who saves this world from becoming the one he too intimately knows. Not for glory or fame, but for the people he’s lost, the friends he’d sacrifice his own life for if he had to.

Before he woke, in his childhood bed, he’d been running. Running because that’s what everyone did, to survive and to grasp at some final strands of hope. And now he’s here. Hope served on a platter of knowledge, of information about life, death and the future that has not yet passed.

Troublesome, troublesome, troublesome. But worth it.

No one has noticed him, where he’s standing in silence and taking everything in. The sun is shining. The grass is green. The boy in orange is alone underneath a tree.

The ground crunches underneath his shoes, shinobi stealth a distant relative to his slow steps. Shikamaru’s heart is still beating hard, not with fear or wonder but determination, as he sits down. The tree is solid at his back and blue eyes are looking at him in surprised confusion.

“Hi,” Shikamaru says, closing his eyes and swallowing. Not willing to face the gratitude such a simple greeting will earn him. He hadn’t been the kind of person to reach out to people before, he probably won’t be another time around either. But Naruto is already his friend, even if the boy doesn’t know it. 

Already, he’s made a difference. Already a change has been made. Shikamaru isn’t looking forward to the rest of it, but it will happen.

“Hi!” is the response he receives, and the hesitance of it makes Shikamaru smile bitterly. It sits heavy in his belly, the ugliness of the uncertainty in Naruto’s voice.

“We should be friends,” he says. Doesn’t want to drag it out, needs to be clear about his intentions. Dragging it out would only make it harder anyway; needless chatter has never been of much worth to Shikamaru.

Naruto doesn’t say anything to that and when Shikamaru turns to look at him the boy is staring at the ground, a furrow between his eyes.

“Really?”

“Yup.”

Hope is in Naruto’s hesitant smile. Hope is fluttering in Shikamaru’s heart. Hope is in the future ahead of them.

Shikamaru will beat ‘troublesome’ with a stick and let it wither and die.

**Author's Note:**

> Non beta'd.


End file.
